


Summertime

by severinne



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M, Outdoor Sex, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-27
Updated: 2009-03-27
Packaged: 2017-10-15 06:07:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/severinne/pseuds/severinne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quick, sweaty and downright dirty action Sam/Gene PWP complete with hot weather and cold lager in the backyard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summertime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [candesgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/candesgirl/gifts).



‘Here, get that down you.’ Gene held out one of the two chilled bottles of Carlsberg, the other dangling at his hip.

‘Can’t.’ A low, despairing groan drifted from Sam’s barely-moving lips. ‘Too tired. Too bloody hot.’

Gene couldn’t help but agree with the latter statement; even in his appallingly offensive United football kit, Sam was a vision, laid out in Gene’s prized sun lounger in the full glare of the sun. A fine sheen of sweat gleamed over his face and neck, made his thin red shirt cling distractingly across his chest. Sam shifted languidly against the unseasonably humid heat of the close June air – legs sprawling wider, the hem of his shorts inching that much higher up a slender thigh.

Too bloody hot, indeed.

‘C’mon, Gladys, got a fine girly lager here with your name on it.’ And Gene had to admit that the cold glass bottle in his hand felt temptingly refreshing, no matter how much he had sneered and groused over Sam making room in the fridge – _not exactly a stretch, Guv, there’s nowt in here but old lard and a jar of mustard, for Christ’s sake_ – but that had been Sam’s condition for helping to tackle the long-neglected back garden on a Saturday during a rare heat wave. They had worked straight through to mid-day, and his Sam deserved a drink, even if it was weakling piss cooled off. ‘Heads up, and bottoms up.’

Sam opened his eyes, and squinted into the sun flooding his eyes to gold. A hand reached up and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, leaving a smear of dirt in its sweaty wake before he gestured loosely for the lager. Gene numbly handed it over, preoccupied with wonder at how that smudge of soil could ever be considered endearing.

‘Mmn.’ Sam tipped the bottle up to his lips, took a long swig that set his long throat bobbing and Gene’s heart racing uncomfortably fast in the aftermath of all that grueling work dragging up dead shrubs and weeds. Throat suddenly dry, Gene grudgingly took a sip of his own lager, then drank some more – bugger it, the shit actually did help in this blasted heat.

‘Not half-bad, this,’ he conceded generously, dropping onto the end of the lounger next to Sam’s bare leg.

‘Yeah,’ Sam agreed easily. Thirst momentarily quenched, he let his head drop back and pressed the bottle to the side of his neck, slowly rubbing the slick coolness of condensation into his overheated skin. Gene stared, open-mouthed, his own drink forgotten.

‘Still bloody hot, though,’ he managed hoarsely.

‘S’nothing.’ Sam was passing the bottle over his face now, brow and cheek and lips, practically nuzzling the damn thing, and Gene suddenly felt his old work jeans – several years old and already a bit on the snug side – tighten uncomfortably over his stirring erection. ‘Few years’ time, it’ll be droughts, and greenhouse gases and global warm- _shit!_ ’

Startled, Sam shot upright in the lounger, halted by Gene’s heavy hand planted on his stomach. ‘Less of the yelping there, pet,’ he teased, dragging his own chilled lager further up the inside of Sam’s thigh. ‘That is, until I really give you something to yelp about…’ His fingers pushed beneath Sam’s shirt, stroking over his sweat-damp stomach until he relented with a low groan and sagged back into the lounger, eyes open but narrowed to heated slits.

‘Might be too worn out for yelping,’ Sam retorted, his words belied by the soft gasp, the subtle arch of his hips off the lounger as Gene drew the bottle further up between his legs. ‘Unless you’re doing all the work for a change…’ His brows lifted in a clear challenge, parted lips quirking slightly. ‘All this work clearing up your pigsty… you owe me, Hunt.’

Sam took another pull off his lager before setting down his bottle in the freshly raked grass, his sense of expectation plain. His easy, no doubt sunstroke-induced confidence was infuriating, insulting and downright irresistible. Smirking, Gene shifted his weight at the foot of the lounger, callously knocking Sam’s legs off to either side and shoving a hand up inside his football shorts.

‘Say what you will, Tyler.’ Gene palmed his evident arousal slowly, heavily. ‘All that work seems to have given you a right hard-on.’

‘Wasn’t the bloody work,’ Sam gasped, thrusting lazily into Gene’s hand. ‘You in those bloody tight jeans… every time you bent over… and your… nrrghh…’

Gene glanced up from where he had leaned forward to lick over the head of Sam’s cock through his shorts. ‘Now you know how I feel every bloody day, you tart,’ he snarled. Decisively, Gene threw his own lager aside – the grass could do with a watering anyway – and set upon Sam with both hands, tugging shorts down from hips and shoving his shirt up to his chest. His impatient hands, still caked with dirt from the garden, cut further streaks of grime into Sam’s perspiring skin, marked Gene’s every touch to that squirming, maddening body as he dragged Sam further down in the lounger and dropped to his knees at the end between Sam’s trembling legs. Breathing hard, Gene buried his own sweating face in Sam’s groin, mouthing over his tightly-drawn balls and tasting the overwhelming musk of Sam’s scent as he rarely experienced it, raw with sweat and feral-sharp.

He swallowed him whole, sliding steadily down with a rumbling growl in his chest to answer Sam’s own deep moan of pleasure. Wrapping his hand tight around the base of Sam’s cock, he sucked and squeezed at overheated flesh, slow and hard before withdrawing back to the tip, lips grinning against the slick crown as he felt Sam’s hand tangle itself savagely in his hair.

‘Thought you were just gonna lie back and think of England on this one, Sammy.’ Gene tongued over the leaking slit, the added layer of salt and scent filling him with a desire that spiked harshly as he glanced up Sam’s disheveled body and met his lust-glazed eyes. Biting his lower lip, Sam groaned darkly and tightened his grip on Gene’s hair.

‘And I thought you were gonna suck me off,’ he snapped back, a little breathlessly as he shoved Gene’s head down. Gene eagerly played along, working Sam with hands and mouth, cruelly exploiting every one of Sam’s sensitive nerves until the harsh demands hissing above him dissolved into whimpered pleas for release.

Sam’s other hand dropped down to the nape of Gene’s neck, tugged needfully at the sweat-soaked back of his shirt. ‘Gene…’ he gasped, hips snapping up off the lounger as he came, pulsing thick and hot into Gene’s mouth. Gene hummed approvingly as he swallowed, kneading his fingers into Sam’s body both to hold him still through the aftershocks and to keep from touching his own throbbing cock. The shifting of his straining flies over his erection as he pushed upright was already enough to make Gene grit his teeth, struggling for control. Licking his lips, he stared down at Sam, spread out over the lounger, all heaving gasps and exposed, sweat-soaked flesh, and nearly came in his trousers at the sight.

‘C’mon.’ Gene dragged Sam to his unsteady feet, temporarily tugging his clothing back into place. ‘Break time’s over. Sheets need washing.’

Sam frowned blearily, blinking at the grass. ‘Wha… no, they don’t,’ he protested slowly, uncertainly. ‘We only bought them last…’

‘Yeah, well, they’re gonna need washing soon enough.’

‘Ah.’ Sam’s eyes tracked lazily down to Gene’s crotch, and further down to his feet. ‘Especially if you’re keeping those boots on.’

Momentarily thrown, Gene frowned down at his mud-caked military boots, old things from his days in National Service. ‘Why would I…’ Realization suckerpunched him in the gut, making his breath catch. ‘You kinky sod.’

‘That’s right.’ Sam’s United jersey smacked him in the face as he looked back up, dropping to the grass just in time for Gene to catch the beckoning arch of Sam’s eyebrow before he turned and strutted towards the house, thumbs already hooking into the waist of his shorts as he shouldered the back door open. ‘You coming, _sir_?’

‘Oh, yeah.’ Gene made sure to tread especially hard on the red shirt as he stalked after Sam, into their home.


End file.
